Hester(87)

After another visit from the undertaker for a daisy-covered shroud, Widow Higgins comes to collect her rent, counts out my coins, and slides them into her pocket.

“It’s only enough to keep you through December,” she says.

“I know.” We’re outside in the clearing, where the leaves on a few trees are tipping yellow, as if trying to call autumn to come and quench the earth. I’m glad she cannot see the captain’s silks spread out inside, for I still don’t trust her. The truth is, I hope to be gone by December. I’m still hoping for a letter from Charlotte inviting me to Philadelphia, still thinking that Nat might return home and come to me.

“I won’t put you out in winter, you needn’t fear it.” The widow glances at my skirt, where a generous apron covers what I don’t want seen. “But you must have your story worked out.”

I’ve never seen colors in the widow’s words, and I don’t see them now. I try to keep my mind on what she’s saying, but I think of all the voices that have no color for me: hers, Edward’s, Mrs. Silas’s.

“You must have your story,” the widow says again. “And you must tell it soon.”

She looks at me with her watery eyes and my mouth goes dry. What have I missed by ignoring the voices with no colors?

“You know my story,” I say carefully. “I came from Scotland with my husband. He sailed off with Captain Darling and didn’t return.”

“That’s not the story I mean.” I notice she has a brown mole in the middle of her eyebrow. I focus on the eyebrow so that I don’t have to look at her face.

“Then what?”

“You’re with child.”

I’m approaching my fourth month. She’s the first person to confront me with it, but she won’t be the last. I’m far too slender to hide a child for long.

“I know sooner than most,” she says. “But it’ll be evident to everyone eventually, even with your clever needlework.”

The mole winks at me through the widow’s white eyebrow. I feel the child shift inside me and silently will her to be still.

“When it’s clear the child isn’t your husband’s, you’ll be asked to name the father—it will be demanded of you. Do you understand? I’m telling you as a friend, Mrs. Gamble.”

I have feared the widow since that first day on the docks. I cannot stand before her and let myself be cowed.

“Then I will speak plainly also.” If I cannot stand up to her now, then I will never be able to face anyone. “I admire your strength, but I don’t know whether you are friend or foe.”

The widow straightens.

“I’m a friend of those in need,” she says. “I know you’re the same. And I’m telling you that an adulteress is unwelcome in Salem. Do you know what they did to the Puritan women who were caught in adultery? They whipped them, branded them, put them in prison. Some called them witches—and when I was alone here, they called me the same.”

I haven’t forgotten the terrible story Nat told me about the widow’s family.

“I was told a story about your sister.”

“You know nothing of my sister.” The widow smells strangely sweet, as if she’s been drinking molasses. “Think about yourself and your child. There are dangerous men in Salem and you should beware, for some are devils.”

“Devils?” I challenge her again, for I do not want to be infected by fear. I will stand on the roof and shout if I must. “What form do they take, these devils?”

The widow stamps her foot on the dirt. The sun slices through the clouds and shines directly on her face.

“Any man can be a devil. Ship captains, magistrates…” Her eyes roll side to side and she falters. “Judges, slavers, bounty hunters—”

The widow’s eyes close, her shoulders jerk twice. Her fingers drag across the door as she starts to slide to the floor. Perhaps an evil spirit has taken hold of her. I look around, but there are no faerie lights, no strange song in the air, no breeze at all.

“Fear them—” She swoons.

“Who?” I ask the widow. “Who should I fear?”

“All of them. The first families, their pride and lies—”

I catch her under the arms and lower her in the shaded doorway, then fetch a wet rag and put it against her cheek.

Her mouth is open, and some spittle runs from it. I stretch her out so that she’s lying on the floor, her feet outside the door and her head on my wooden boards. She’s an old woman with a line of white hairs along her chin. They are visible only now, this close.

Long moments pass until she breathes more steadily.

“You fainted,” I say. “You should rest.”

“It was the sun,” she says. She uses my shoulder to drag herself to stand, pats her skirt to check her pockets, and hears the coins rattle there. “I must get on—just a little water first.”

She brushes leaves and sticks from her skirt and seems to not remember what she said. But she has reminded me of the washerwoman’s song and the undertaker at my door, the accusations Felicity flung at me.

When she is safely gone, I take the Adam and Eve shawl from the shelf where I folded it away and wonder what price it might bring. I consider the people in town I can trust, and finally I remember Mr. Saul, the custodian at the East India Marine Society Hall, who is well acquainted with decorative items from around the world. The captain told me that Mr. Saul is a trusted friend, and I still have the note he gave me when he sailed away with Edward.